


was i made from a broken mold?

by luminaryhowell



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Anxiety, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, hurt!phil and all that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 12:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminaryhowell/pseuds/luminaryhowell
Summary: Somewhere, Phil feels his gratitude and pride. He tries hard to latch onto those positive emotions, sick of all the grey. But tonight, he’s so lost in the shade he can’t find any colours.





	was i made from a broken mold?

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and i don't cast aspersions towards or claim to know anything about phil's life and experiences. the story is based off my own emotions and imagination.
> 
> title: idontwannabeyouanymore by Billie Eilish

They’re a quarter of the way into the tour, and that’s when Phil senses it brooding behind his rib cage. The beginnings of a thunderstorm, grey and heavy and cumbersome. Expanding, stretching, forcing him to take longer, deeper breaths, more than usual. Demanding trips to the bathroom to close his eyes. Slipping a quiver into his fingers. If he’s honest, it’s daunting. He really thought he could escape it for a while, as if this road trip-adventure would be his ‘safe haven’ for a month or two. 

Obviously, he got ahead of himself. 

Anxiety knows no boundaries. You can’t give it a call and tell it to stay away for a bit while you’re busy (despite how much Phil wishes it worked like that). But he sort of assumed, and maybe hoped, this tour would take up so much of his mind and body, there’d be no room for a mental illness. As it turned out, the busyness of the tour was more of a breeding ground.

A List of Aspects Which Contributed to the Festering of Phil Lester’s Nerves:

1\. Having to confirm extra dates with venues, under the pressure of not disappointing and angering their audience.  
2\. Constant rehearsals and the stress of fucking up everything they’d worked hard for.  
3\. The risk of _anything_ about his and Dan’s personal life revealing itself at any point on tour.  
4\. Figuring out how to pay rent and other bills while they were gone.  
5\. Overwhelming insecurity and fear of interaction. 

It sounds stupid. But it’s all that and more, piling against his brain, until something insignificant breaks the storm.

The convoy’s first official stop is Boston, and everyone is granted the gift of hotel rooms for a couple of nights. On the first day, some of the crew join Dan and Phil to grab coffee. The rest stay behind at Wang Theatre, constructing the set and testing light systems for tomorrow’s performance. Normally, Phil would be eager to do a bit of exploration while buying some drinks as a thank-you to the guys working tirelessly on the show. But today – today Phil is so out of it he might be glued in place as the world continues to move forward. 

He’s buried deep. The jostling of city sounds – restaurant murmurs, the hiss of a bus, a dog’s bark – are muffled, as if he’s underwater. His brain is unable to form the words to a sentence. He only manages a monotone smile at the banter thrown between his co-workers. And Dan hasn’t noticed yet.

They stop at a Starbucks on the corner (Phil swears Dan mentioned something about a capitalist agenda once again, but he can’t remember hearing it). Orders are taken, someone pays, and Phil finds himself holding his and Dan’s cups.

Phil takes another deep breath; that’s all he can do in these situations, but his senses kick back in and there are voices in the cafe and people are looking at him and his lungs are frozen solid. 

He makes it outside. Someone in the group calls his name, and Phil turns a little too fast, coffee loose in unstable fingers. Unstable footing. Unstable balance. Phil grasps a streetlamp before he can fall, but when he looks down, there’s vanilla iced coffee and chocolate mocha spilt all over the concrete. _Dammit._ And then – 

“Awh, good one, Phil!”

“Dude, how’d you manage that?”

“You clumsy bastard.”

“What the – Phil, you just dropped our _drinks._ You fucking idiot.” That’s Dan, and those are the words that hurt the most. 

And it’s a joke – really, everyone is treating it like one and their words don’t mean anything – but the teasing takes on a scathing filter in his ears. Especially Dan’s. 

It takes a while for his mouth to catch up with his brain. “Oh – oh god, I’m sorry. I don’t know what...I’m sorry. Sorry Dan, I’ll just run in and buy you – buy you another one. Sorry.” He scuttles back inside, avoiding everyone’s gaze. If there’s a shift of emotion in Dan’s eyes, Phil doesn’t notice.

On their way back to the theatre, Phil zones out while his thoughts clamber over one another like the zombies in World War Z. His fears, doubts and second-guesses seem to have an agenda of their own, one which involves engulfing him in panic. _Does Dan actually think I’m an idiot? Everyone saw that. Why do I always make a fool of myself? God, what if Dan hates me?_ He tries to find calm in the suggestions collected from mental health organisations, like drinking water and grounding himself with his senses. Nothing works. The thoughts stick around until bedtime; Dan is asleep, back turned, and Phil can’t hear his own heartbeat over the loudness in his brain, but the organ is heavy enough to feel its drum. 

He doesn’t acknowledge it, but in the back of his mind is the reminder that he’ll feel this grey and tight-chested for two more days at least.

*

On show day, Phil’s brain is wading through claggy mud. He feels empty, and at the same time so, so crammed with anguish and fear. Because he’s _performing_ tonight. He’s meeting the people who look up to him, he’s putting on a show that demands energy and happiness. And he’s drained of it. 

Dan doesn’t say anything, but one look and Phil knows that he knows. Or, knows some of it. He makes Phil tea and does the talking with Ed and Marianne. He keeps a comforting hand on the small of Phil’s back wherever they go, a reassurance that he’s there. When they sit on the lounge in the dressing room, laptops open on thighs, Phil slouches against Dan’s shoulder and Dan massages his scalp. It doesn’t cure him, but it’s enough to keep him afloat for a while. 

The crew is buzzing today – setting up merch stalls, preparing for weird-kid stories and seven-second-challenges, doing more lighting checks. It’s another one of those days where Phil feels absolutely useless, watching everyone organise and work while he steams his voice and gets his face powdered. But it’s not like he has the vitality to work anyway. 

“Are you sure you’re alright to do this?” Dan asks him ten minutes before the meet and greet, resting his fingers on Phil’s elbow.

Phil stares at the metal door ahead of them. On the other side are a hundred or so of his audience, waiting with anticipation just to see _him._ He knows how this works. They grin and hug and stumble over their words, expecting so much in the space of a minute. They want recognition and connection, they want to be _known._ And Phil can’t blame them because he was in their shoes once, but he can’t give them what they want. 

His mind is overflowing. His body is vacant. Everything they say, he won’t hear. Phil turns his head and flashes a weak smile at Dan. “I’m sure,” he says. “You know we can’t call it off, though.”

“I mean…we could? If you really wanted.”

Phil shakes his head. “I can’t do that. I can’t disappoint them.”

Dan stares at him a moment longer, before nodding, squeezing his elbow and threading their fingers together in the few minutes they have left.

The meet up passes by like a fog. When it’s over, Phil can’t recall any names. The conversations and stories are vague and unimportant, yet he finds himself overthinking every word he said, every hug he gave.

And the show? Well, he does good. He remembers all his lines, he finds energy in the adrenalin of being on stage, the audience laughs when he wants them to laugh. For an hour and a half, Phil can jam his mind with nothing but the performance, while his anxiety simmers beneath. But when he speaks, the words don’t belong to him. When their Sim voices his insecurities, he feels more vulnerable than encouraged, especially when the crowds shout their dissent at his feelings. 

But the night is still a success. The crew congratulate them with pats on the back and raised wine glasses. Their audience tweets about how hilarious the show was and how lovely Dan and Phil were. Somewhere, Phil feels his gratitude and pride. He tries hard to latch onto those positive emotions, sick of all the grey.

But tonight, he’s so lost in the shade he can’t find any colours. 

*

Eventually, the storm thins. 

It happens in the hotel room. The door to their suite clicks shut, a metaphorical breakwater against the swell of everything that wants to drown him. Phil’s feet sink into the carpet. He stares at Boston through the balcony windows; the city blinks back at him, a chorus of silver and gold, and he fills his lungs with air that feels weightless for the first time in days. 

Dan was carrying their shared backpack. It hits the floor, and along with it, the pressure on Phil’s shoulders. He closes his eyes. The breakwater shudders. And the waves are crashing over his head, a collision of relief and misery and paralysis, washing away the tendrils of anxiety but leaving a heavy emptiness behind. He murmurs a half-choked, “Dan–” but Dan is already there, knowing exactly what he needs in times like these.

There is safety in the way Dan holds him, warmth in the fingertips trailing across his back, love in the lips hushing him and kissing his temple. Phil sags against him, takes a deep breath against his skin. It trembles, but it’s okay, because the worst is over and he’s here and he’s alone with the one person it isn’t an effort to be around.

In the shelter of Dan’s collarbone, he lets himself cry, just a little. 

Then, a shower. He peels off his clothes and steps under the hot spray after shaking his head at Dan’s offer to join him. Dan understands. He needs this, a way to wash off the day and gather himself into something more solid.

After two shampoos and a quick body wash, Phil relaxes his shoulders. He lifts his head and sticks his whole face under the jets. It feels heavenly on his cheeks and silences the world for a moment, as he listens to nothing but the rush of water and his muscles loosen. Several more tears dribble out and join the shower droplets, but Phil reminds himself it’s okay and it’s healthy. And it makes him feel a little better – he climbs out and catches his reflection in the mirror, red eyes and all, and laughs stupidly at himself.

Dan’s buried to his neck in the duvet, staring at his phone, when Phil emerges wrapped in two towels. He slips on a pair of boxers and doesn’t bother with the rest, while Dan dumps his phone on the nightstand and pulls back the covers. Phil crawls underneath, small and needy as he clutches Dan’s waist and pushes his face into his shoulder. 

Dan kisses his hair. “Feeling better?” he whispers.

There’s a pause, and a shrug.

“Out of ten?”

Phil whines in the back of his throat, turns his face to the side. “Five, I think.”

“Were you okay during the show?”

“I guess,” Phil mumbles. “I was, like, high on adrenalin but you know what it’s like.”

Dan does know. There were times during the UK tour when his own depression would mute his surroundings and isolate him from his own body. It made it hard to connect with everyone around him. But Phil would be there to hold his hand and keep him upright when he could.

They’re different in the way they deal with their illnesses, Phil had noticed. Dan prefers solitude, where he can beat down his thoughts in private, and finds comfort in the silence shared with another person. Phil needs physical contact and someone to listen to him, someone to remind him he is loved and valued. 

Phil shifts so his head is pillowed by Dan’s chest, and Dan’s fingers wind through his damp hair. Usually, Phil would smile. Playing with his hair is always something Dan does when they cuddle. But now, ease makes way for insecurity. He wonders if he really deserves being held like this; if Dan is only comforting him because he feels obligated; if underneath it all, Dan hates him and his whining and his burdens and his dependency and–

“Do you know what triggered it?” Dan asks softly.

Phil breathes, examining the baby hairs on Dan’s chest. “Everything,” he says eventually. “But there was this time when – um. Actually. No, it’s – never mind.”

Silence.

“Phil.”

“Yeah.”

“You can tell me, if you want. Whatever leaves that mouth, I’m not gonna judge it.”

Phil shuts his eyes. He hates this. He hates it because _Dan_ triggered it, really. Dan and the crew but mostly Dan, his words the tipping point. He hates it because it’s not Dan’s _fault_ , per se, but Dan will still feel guilty even though he doesn’t deserve to feel guilty when it’s just Phil’s brain fucking up again. Maybe he won’t even feel guilty, just angry at being blamed, angry that Phil is making such a big deal out of harmless teasing. 

_But he won’t; he never has,_ Phil tells himself desperately. _He’ll understand._

Phil opens his eyes and his mouth, waiting for the words. One thing he has to work on is cutting off the fear before it magnifies, and he does that now. He focuses on the way Dan’s thumb caresses the back of his hand. _He’ll understand._

“We were – we were getting coffee,” he starts, peering up at Dan. His partner only nods, urging him to continue. “Yesterday, at Starbucks. We were leaving, and I had both our drinks and someone said my name and I turned and – and spilt the – the coffee and everyone started shouting and – I was in the, you know, the sad zone, a few days before, and yesterday I was feeling a bit spacey.” Phil wipes the dampness from his eyes. “So when everyone yelled at me – and I know it was a joke and stuff, but it kind of sent me over the edge and that’s why I’ve been such a disaster today. I don’t know.”

Again, silence. Phil can’t bring himself to look at Dan. Vines slink towards his lungs as the quiet lingers, and his mind twists, turns, overthinks. 

Then Dan murmurs, “I shouted at you, didn’t I?”

Phil shrugs. “Yeah. But – but everyone did, it’s not like–”

“Phil.” There’s a hand on his cheek, stroking the skin. “I know it might not seem like it, but everything you’re thinking up there is wrong. It’s not your fault. I should’ve noticed sooner what was going on – I’m sorry I was so rude to you, about coffee of all things.”

Phil sniffs and drops his gaze. He feels Dan kiss his forehead.

“Love you,” Dan whispers.

After a few seconds, Phil recognises a calm that settles over him. And then – he laughs. It’s wet and pitiful and there’s nothing really funny about the situation, but he laughs and holds Dan a little tighter. “Love you too. God. I’m the worst.”

“You’re not. You’re Phil, and Phil is allowed to feel like this.”

He should probably say something snarky in reply with an undercurrent of thankfulness, but Phil ends up ditching the first part and smiles softly at Dan, and Dan understands the words without having to hear them. 

It’s not over. Anxiety will link its pinkie finger with Phil’s and cling to him for two more days, more or less. But it’s not always unshakeable; beneath the doubts and the worries and the blame, Phil knows he can rise above the clouds and he knows Dan is always willing to pull him up some of the way. For now, Phil presses a kiss to Dan’s chest and lets sleep overtake him, safe in the arms of a love that will always be there to guide him through the fog.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3 and follow me if you want?
> 
> everything: @luminaryhowell


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